A Sad Story No One Should Read
by A. J. Hussey
Summary: All Neopians know of the evil that is Dr. Frank Sloth, but when one of his faithful servants/lab rats disturbs the Dr. against his better judgement, he will taste the wrath of Sloth.


**WARNING!!**

This story came out a lot more violent and morbid than I had planned, so if that sort of thing bothers you, DON'T READ IT!! Otherwise, mean comments saying you were offended not only makes you a pussy, it also makes you a douche nozzle who can't read. Also, I am not planning on continuing this story or explaining little details, but I suppose I might continue if enough people expressed such an interest.

A Sad Story No One Should Read

By: Shlee

The creature stood hunched before the great oaken door, his swollen, three-clawed fist raised to head-height only an inch or so from the door's ancient sentry. His master, the Doctor, had given him specific instructions not to disturb him while worked, but the creature had urgent news. It was bad urgent news, but it could not go undelivered. He had played it all out in his mind. If he let the matter go and failed to alert the Doctor, he would be tortured for weeks until he finally died mercifully at the hands of the Dungeon Lord who resided in the labyrinth-like basement several floors below. On the other hand, the Doctor was likely to subdue him in a fit of rage and throw him into his laboratory to live out the rest of his days as lab rat. There was also the distinct possibility that the Doctor might simply toss him from the window, which would give him plenty of time to enjoy his newfound freedom as he plummeted seven stories to the stave-filled moat below. Perhaps the Doctor would be merciful. . .

He withdrew his fist slowly, dropping his gaze to his gnarly, misshapen feet. His neck ached from the strain of holding his head erect for so long. He was no longer built to stand upright, as his spine had curved cruelly through a series of the Doctor's most unsuccessful experiments. Well, perhaps they were not the most unsuccessful, but he was the most unsuccessful surviving outcome of such tests. It was often he wondered why his liege allowed him to live. Why did he not just end it. Though somewhere deep in his twisted, bulbous head he feared death, he more-or-less fancied it to a much higher degree. Sometimes it felt as if it were nothing but his undying loyalty to the Doctor that kept him from plunging his pewter dinner fork into his temple at night, or closing his head in the boiler as he stoked the searing embers for the morning water. Perhaps that, also, was the reason he now stood trembling at the top of the highest tower in the fortress, with nothing but an inch and a half of aged, splintering oak between him and his most beloved mentor. . . and his most hated enemy. Perhaps that was why he raised his boney, mangled hand once again. Perhaps that was why he ignored his bile-stoked heartburn and his frantic, panicked heartbeat to let first one, then another strong, heavy knock emit from his falling fist through the unseen room beyond. Perhaps the consequences would not be so dire. Perhaps.

Heavy footfalls sounded in the unseen beyond the door. The creature would have stepped back in fear, but the door was nestled almost directly in line with the top step. A thought occurred to him as he imagined just stepping back and allowing flight after flight of winding, stone steps to carry him into the deepest of dark, sweet oblivion. He had not time to act upon his daydream, as the door was suddenly open. Certainly there was an action, or movement, something in between the door's being closed and opened, but it was lost as the barrier was nearly torn from tarnished hinges in the wake of the Doctor's seething rage. One hand on the door jam, the ominous silhouette of the man loomed over the trembling creature.

The man normally stood just under seven feet, though as he hunched at the top of the tomb-like stairwell, he probably topped off at around six feet nine inches. Though still in his early thirties, he sported platinum silver hair just long enough to stay messed at angry angles. His shoulders filled the doorway side-to-side, while the rest of him took up the length. The light behind him was brilliant, as the midday sun shone cheerily through an open window across the room, but for all the creature cowering on the stairs knew, it was still nighttime. The enveloping darkness only seemed to enhance the Doctor's best, and perhaps worst, feature: his eyes. There was a raging fire behind them, and yet they chilled the air as they passed over. One might say their color was reddish-orange, though most unlucky souls close enough to see that found them to be their last, haunting vision.

"I told you not to disturb me," hushed and booming at the same time, the Doctor's voice oozed malice and impending doom in frighteningly calm tones.

In the silence that followed, the creature struggled to still his thoughts long enough to remember his mission, "Sire. . ." he choked on the word, as if any name in reference to the Doctor was poisoned itself, "S-sire, the one sire k-killed. . . the one sire killed is not. . . he is alive. . . sire he. . ."

"INSOLENT FOOL! You DARE disturb me with this TRIFE?! I have killed many! What makes you think, as if you were actually capable of such an ability, that I would remember just one?! You should die for your incompetence," something dripped from the fingers of the Doctor's dangling hand. A metallic scent wafted through the air as a crimson puddle began to form at the man's feet.

"SIRE, NO! We, it begs of you, p-please. . . it is _him._ Long hair. . . the eyes. . ." a shiver ran down the creature's convex spine, "him who has a sister the sire hates. . . him who stood up to sire and shows no fear in the sight of sire. . ."

The shadows of the man's face deepened as his features twisted in fury, "WHAT?! How do you know this?! What proof do you have?!" the stairwell boomed and vibrated as his voice crashed down the entire length of the tower.

The creature had yellowish tears on his blotchy, mismatched cheeks. Something warm trickled down his leg as he hiccupped and felt his knees weakening under him, "Him who killed the minotaur guards, him who broke chains on drawbridge, h-him who-who-who crushed skull of s-sire's. . . hnnnn. . . him is-is waiting in sire's study. . . he live. . . alive, sire. . ."

There was a long, extremely uncomfortable span of time where the creature entertained thoughts that he might already be dead. The Doctor had grown so quiet, the creature thought with astonishment that he had already gone. These thoughts remained only such, as the Doctor was indeed still looming in the doorway as the creature dared open a single eye in curiosity. He almost immediately wished he hadn't, however, as his timing was perfect that he looked up just in time to see the Doctor's foot plant firmly in his chest. A single, horror-filled shriek was all he had time to utter before his skull shattered several steps below.

Barely conscious, he continued in a limp, backwards roll down the tower, as the steps were short and the stairs steep in his path. His legs became jointed in ways they were never meant to be and his arms flailed at ridiculous angles as his large head made lovely spackled patterns of scarlet on the stark, gray walls. It might have been a darling color if it hadn't resembled bits of scalp and brain-matter. When his battered carcass finally came to rest on the cold floor far below, he was still alive. His very existence became anguish as he lay there in a creeping pool of his own life-fluids. One eye felt as if it were on fire, with something wet and heavy hanging below on the cheek. His chest felt like mush as he drew short, gurgling breaths with all the effort he could muster. Footsteps behind him, from the stairs. The Doctor hardly paused to cast the pathetic heap a pitiless glance before striding calmly through a door across the door to attend to much more pressing matters. The creature shook, the pain of every quake and shiver increasing as his tremors became more violent until they evolved into full-blown convulsions. The fog was drifting in at last. He felt himself pulling away, receding deeper into the depths until at last he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. He embraced the darkness, releasing a sigh he had held for years. As the absence of his pain carried him away into something reminiscent of comfort, he allowed his innermost eyes to close and at long last, he was at peace.


End file.
